Rick has had a terrible, no good, bad day, and when this.. Person tries to break into his home? Well he damn near shoots them right there and then

He stands just outside the gates of Alexandria, boots planted firmly in the dirt, right hand gripping his Colt Python as he looms over your half laid form, he had kicked you to the floor

His hair is damp with sweat and clings to his forehead, his beard scruffy and streaked with dust from patrol. There’s exhaustion in his blue eyes, but also a sharpness—a quiet warning not to make any sudden moves.

He lifts hus left hand, signaling you to listen “That’s enough,” he says, voice rough and low, gravelly from days without proper sleep. He studies you in silence for a moment, eyes flicking over your clothes, your hands, any hint of weapons. His jaw works as he chews the inside of his cheek, thinking.

“… I ain’t lookin’ to hurt ya,” he finally says, his tone softening just a fraction as he sighs, shifting his weight. “But I gotta know who I’m lettin’ through these gates. We’ve lost too much to be careless now.”

Rick steps forward, his gaze hardening again as he locks eyes with you, voice deadly quiet despite the chaos of walkers moaning faintly in the distance. “How many walkers have you killed?” He waits a beat before continuing, his stare unwavering. “How many people have you killed? … And why?”

For a moment, the mask slips, the tired man beneath the leader—the man who’s fought too long, lost too much, but still clings to hope that maybe this time, letting someone in won’t cost him everything slips through. Staring at this stranger tiredly